


show us to our love, inevitable

by whatiwouldnotgive



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, Interspecies Romance, Interspecies Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Size Difference, Size Kink, Vaginal Sex, Worldbuilding, the working title of this fic was 'simping for a het couple', tiniest bit of foot worship because let's be real this is a hobbit and human, well porn with character study but definitely no plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:39:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27495841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatiwouldnotgive/pseuds/whatiwouldnotgive
Summary: Sitting next to her, he says, “What are you doing out here? It’s dangerous to be so far away from everyone.”“Do not worry,” she says, offering a smile as assurance, “this is my land.  It will protect us."“Will you allow me to escort you back to the tents?” he asks. “I’ve just had the fire built up, and it’s rather cold tonight. I wouldn’t want you to freeze.” His hands fidget in his lap while his gaze remains steadfast on her face, avoiding her exposed legs. She supposes he’s rarely seen the full dress of Eorlingas women, who don’t often have need to wear leather breeches and split skirts anymore.“Of course.”On the eve of battle, Éowyn formally, and cordially, invites Merry to her tent.  Among other things.
Relationships: Merry Brandybuck/Éowyn
Comments: 11
Kudos: 57





	show us to our love, inevitable

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nervousalligator](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nervousalligator/gifts).



> Inspired by spectraling's gorgeous merrywyn [art.](https://twitter.com/spectraling/status/1318268732905578496) thanks to her and the wonderful lotr community on twitter!  
> can ya'll see my fascination with anglo-saxon culture in this one orz i'm unable to write any lotr fic without worldbuilding  
> title from _poem for my love_ by june jordan.  
> disclaimer: i do not own LOTR, all rights belong to respective owners.

How do we come to be here next to each other   
in the night  
Where are the stars that show us to our love   
inevitable  
Outside the leaves flame usual in darkness   
and the rain  
falls cool and blessed on the holy flesh   
the black men waiting on the corner for   
a womanly mirage  
I am amazed by peace  
It is this possibility of you  
asleep  
and breathing in the quiet air—june jordan

* * *

The eve of battle is never good for the nerves, Éowyn believes. Somehow the anticipation, the blood lust, heightens. Tempers flare, nightmares rage, and deadly quiet settles over camp. Éowyn knows this both firsthand and by account, from Éomer reporting back. Many hours have they spent, twin blonde heads pressed together, in counsel over mead by the long fires of Meduseld’s halls. Though he is her elder by those few precious years, in many ways they have aged together and regard each other as equals. Éomer never spares her feelings when he feels she is making a poor decision nor does she lighten the blow when reviewing a failed scouting expedition. Éomer also was the one who taught her to use sword and shield when their mother forbade it, late at night in his bedroom. Perhaps that is why the hurting is so great when Éomer, same as their uncle, behests her to remain behind. 

She leaves the war council without a glance backwards, ignoring Éomer’s calls. Cool, the night is. Cool and crisp as spring evenings should be. Not even the taint of Mordor can stop the ceaseless flow of the seasons. Anger rages within her, burning language to ash on her tongue. Making her way to the edge of camp, Éowyn ties up the hem of her skirts, revealing the leather hose worn for riding. She also ties up her hair, away from her face, and begins to run. 

In a long, ambling circle, her feet skirt camp, riding the border between safety and danger, of known and unknown. But they are still in Rohan, and she is born of this land. She knows each inch of its prairies, tall grasslands, valleys, and marshland. She pours libations to the spirits that inhabit root and rock. The land in kind knows her. Éowyn is certain that if she took off into the wilds, that the nicors and wights would rise from their waters and wodes to guard her. 

In one of her people’s many histories and legends, a story exists of a woman, widowed and childless by war. So great was her rage that she could not bear the site of the lords who sent her family to fight, and she wandered the moors like a beggar for many moons. Her hair grew ragged, voice creaky with disuse. But her loneliness eased the longer she remained in the wilds, for she made friends with the spirits. Her caravan filled with brùnaidhs and wyverns and all manner of creatures fae. One day, many years after she had taken to the wilds, with flowers in her tresses and clothes woven of flax and reeds, she came across a dragon, asleep and alone. Its scales glittered like emeralds, its tail ended on a point sharper than any arrow or speartip. Puffs of smoke plumed from it’s great nostrils with each breath it took, making the dry grass beneath crackle and catch. As she grew closer, the beast awoke, looking at her with eyes as old as time itself, but she refused to be intimidated. Bowing deep, she let the beast greet her as it would. Because its language was so old, it spoke to her in her mind, saying _Greetings, daughter of Wildlands._ And in return, she said, _Greetings, ancient one of the skies_. She and her spirit friends stopped their wandering for a while to speak with it.

She learned the beast’s name was Ælfcynn, in her tongue, for at the dawning of the earliest age, the Elves would ride astride their back across all of Middle Earth, and she told them she gave up her name long ago. They named her Gǣstapaeard, taught her to tame the wild horses that galloped along the Running River. Together with the spirits, Gǣstapaeard and Ælfcynn spent many years together until she grew grey and old and could no more wander. She said to Ælfcynn, _I would pass on my knowledge of the spirits and beasts, but all my children are gone_. And Ælfcynn said to her, _No my lady, there is one who remains. Can you make one last journey?_ Gǣstapaeard found the strength, and together they went to the very edges of her people’s lands, where they turned to forest and Elf-kind, and from the woods of Rhovanion came a wizened man, grey bearded but stout hearted. Gǣstapaeard knew his face, that of her youngest son, Widugawja. In her last years, she passed on all her knowledge to Widugawja. When she was finished, to her son, she said, _I must go now, deoresunu._ Ælfcynn allowed her to climb astride their back as they flew into the West. From Widugawja would descend the line of Eorl, and those who find themselves lost in the plains of the Riddermark call upon Gǣstapaeard’s spirit friends to guide them home. 

How many times Éowyn begged for the story to be told could never be counted. Sitting around the long fire, she’d plead with the loremasters to tell it as many times as they would indulge her. Dreaming of one day meeting a dragon, Éowyn ran about the village, climbing trees and swinging wooden swords pretending to defend spirits from evil. As well, she perfected offerings and rites, memorized each poem and prayer and verse. And now, while she presses onward, Éowyn knows Gǣstapaeard is with her.

Her father, before he passed, joked to visiting lords that Éowyn could run before she learned to walk. She has been like this always, craving like a hound to a bone, to run headforth into the next great thing. It always made her mother despair, her uncle laugh as they raced horses. She has spent much of her life toeing the line between duty and desire and wonders if there will ever be an end. Although, she doesn’t fancy having to choose one or the other. 

She nears the end, having looped back around to the beginning, so sets her pace faster, gulping in air to ignore her pleading muscles. When she finishes, she collapses to the ground. Lush green grass pillows around her, curious crickets leap onto her belly. She laughs, from exhaustion or nerves or joy. And really, are they different things in wartime?

The night is cloudy, obscuring the stars. On the occasions when Boromir came to visit with his father, he taught her Gondor’s star lore when they snuck off, both still youths and not permitted in the running of kingdoms. Though legends differ, both Eorlingas and Gondorians recognize the one luminous star that always leads north. She wishes she could see them now.

To the side, a voice clears throat. 

“My lady?” Merry, in his mail and leathers too big. 

Sitting up, she says, “Hello, Master Meriadoc.” 

As she makes no move to stand, Merry walks closer. Sitting next to her, he says, “What are you doing out here? It’s dangerous to be so far away from everyone.” 

What had he told her about where he grew up? That Brandy Hall borders wild Forest and river deep, so he grew up knowing what happens to those who stray too far from home. 

“Do not worry,” she says, offering a smile as assurance, “this is my land. It will protect us."

“Will you allow me to escort you back to the tents?” he asks. “I’ve just had the fire built up, and it’s rather cold tonight. I wouldn’t want you to freeze.” His hands fidget in his lap while his gaze remains steadfast on her face, avoiding her exposed legs. She supposes he’s rarely seen the full dress of Eorlingas women, who don’t often have need to wear leather breeches and split skirts of their ancestors anymore. 

“Of course.” After untying her skirts, they walk back to the center of camp where the king and his guard are. Most of their men have bedded down for the night save for the few who are on guard or find sleep eluding them. Around the shallow fire pit, several cushions have been spared for members of the royal household. She and Merry share one. Again his hands fidget on whatever he can find. First it is tufts of grass, then the edge of his cloak, then the laces of his shift. When he tugs too hard, he reveals a touch of his chest, bare of hair like all of his kind. The Eorlingas pride themselves on their neatly trimmed beards though not as much as the Dwarves, and which the Hobbits can grow naught at all. To her eyes, Merry appears to walk a beautiful middle ground with his masculine jaw and soft chest and waist. It delights her and alights a flame within her. 

“Master Holbytla,” she says, “won’t you tell me something of home? A story or memory or place? The Eorlingas always share tales before the fire.”

Merry smiles, nervousness teasing the corners of it. “Surely my little escapades around pilfering crops from neighbours and playing drunk tween games are no match for a Lady like yourself.”

“Drunken games, you say? If they’re anything like what I used to do as a youth, then I wonder if your people are as innocent as you seem.”

Merry blinks while the tips of his ears turn pink. She wants to touch them.

“Oh, well,” he stutters. “We, we—”

Taking pity on him, she continues, “Once when I was six and ten, we stole some of this drink called kefir. My uncle had come across some Easterling traders who were selling it. It’s an alcoholic milk, you see, and we were fascinated by it. So we got drunk off it. And one of my friends suggested we play a game with the empty bottle. You spin it and kiss whoever it lands on.” She giggles, remembering the warmth of both drink and company. She didn’t often spend time with those her own age who thought her strange and cold. “And mine spin landed on Wídryth, a girl I’d fancied for some time. So I gave her my first kiss.” Nothing did become of them, for Wídryth was arranged to marry another, but Éowyn never forgot those long days spent in another’s company.

“We had a similar game. But most often, we played a game we called ‘Guess the Pig’ where one person closed their eyes, and someone would sit on their lap and kiss them. They had three guesses, and if they lost, they had to finish their drink.”

She pictures a group of little folk, drunken and carefree, stumbling over their feet into one another’s mouth.

“How often did you lose?”

“Ah,” he says with a laugh, “I’m the long reigning champion, I never lost a game. The only person who ever came close to beating my record was Pippin.” His voice drops, sad, wistful perhaps. “Yes, it is always best with him.”

They fall into silence because sometimes secrets such as they have should be kept as such. 

The firelight looks so becoming on Merry, casting his face into relief. From his broad nose sloping upward at the tip, to the rosy mouth sitting crooked below, he is otherworldly. Every part of her _wants,_ and Éowyn has wanted so much in her life, but nothing compared to _right now_ , to the course of heat churning within her. It would be untoward to cast her desires onto him, for she is a princess, a leader, and she would sooner cut her hair off than have him obey out of obligation. 

“You met Lord Boromir, Master Meriadoc?” she says, in an attempt to steer their conversation—and her wandering thoughts. 

However, Merry only looks sadder, gazing into the fire. Grabbing a nearby log, he tosses it into the middle, sending up a shower of sparks. 

He nods. “I did. He is one of the nine of us. I miss him everyday.” 

“I as well. We were friends since childhood. He is still one of the only people who truly knows me. Both honour-bound to our duties and our people.” This time when she laughs, it is bitter. “I suppose we would have married one another eventually, if only because no one else would stand our odd ways.” 

Merry looks at her sharply. “Do you love him?”

She does love Boromir, but in the way she loves Éomer. If they had married, however, she knows she would grow to love him as a partner. Éowyn tells Merry this. Boromir was the only one who knew of her dreams of dragons; she was the only one who knew of his dream of a small home, hearth, and hand to hold. Resentful of their lots in life they were. What a pair they were to be reckoned with.

“I wish I could have given him that,” says Merry. 

For all her life, Éowyn longed to be more. Taller, broader, faster. Quicker-witted, keener-eyed. And to do this, she walled her heart to protect it. But this hobbit, this curious little creature, he makes her feel small. And not small as belittled or caged, but small as in the homes his people carve out of dirt, and small as in his deft hands that can sew fiddly buttons hers are too clumsy for, and small as in the flowers that dot the Riddermark’s landscape which she never paid mind but his people have deemed important enough to craft an entire language out of. 

In a fight with her mother, who was content to weave and cook, oversee land and household, Éowyn asked how she could settle for so little. Her mother replied, _it is no bad thing to celebrate a simple life in which your people are provided for, and you are happy._ And one night, as she and Boromir stargazed together, he confessed _I wish I could put down my sword and make a home with someone. Go out to hunt and trade, come home to them at the end of the day. Go to festivals with friends, and never worry about more than the leak in our roof._ She never understood either until now.

Gently, Éowyn reaches her hand up, tilts Merry’s head up with her forefinger. He stares at her, equal parts wonderment and anxiety. Slowly, deliberately, she kisses him. His lips part, stunned, but she does not take advantage. His curls tickle her forehead, speech stoppers in her throat. As she pulls away, she allows her fingertips to rest on his jaw. Heat pools in the pit of her stomach. This time she does not refuse it. For a moment, his eyes remain closed, lashes a fair little smudge on his cheek. They flutter open. At first he is dazed, half-lidded, mouth open and wet. With dawning realization, they grow wider, his brow knits, face blushes pink. 

“My—” he begins. 

She stands, hand slipping from his jaw to his collarbone then gone. 

“My lady—” he says, choked. 

“The night has grown rather chilled, don’t you think?” She pulls the tie out of her hair, lets it cascade down. She cannot help the smoke in her voice, the smoulder in her gaze. Éowyn refuses to let Merry slip away.

She turns, walking back to her tent. While the wild part of her dares to hope he will follow, she cannot hear his soft tread. While waiting for his answer, she putters about, lighting candles and setting out furs on her bedroll. 

She doesn’t wait for long. 

“My lady?” Merry says, parting the canvas doorway. He walks up to her, so they stand face to face in the center of her tent. Even if he has grown taller, as he claims he has, she has nearly two feet on him still, the top of his head only barely meeting her chest. 

“Please tell me I did not misread this,” he says with a tremor. He reaches for her hands which she gives freely. 

“You have not. But Merry, I must know that you aren’t doing this out of obligation.” 

“I would never think to stain your honour so.” 

Leaning down, Éowyn wraps an arm around his waist, another around his neck. Pulling him up onto his toes and bending him back a little, she kisses him again, deep and searching. He reciprocates this time, meeting her with a gasp. His hands grasp at her sleeves, holding on for balance. They can’t kiss standing like this for too long—she already feels her neck ache—so they part. The flush hasn’t left his face while his hands shake where they touch her. Burying her face in his curls, she breathes deep the scent of fire smoke and soap. She noses her way down to his ear, breath ghosting over it, traces her lips over the shell of it, finally satiating her curiosity. Merry shivers, exhaling shakily. 

Reaching up, he kisses the edge of her mouth, the hollow of her throat.

Immediately she is struck by the need to be rid of all her clothes, any mark of status or station or war.

Whispering, she says, “Would you care to undress me? Or would you have me put on a show for you?” He shivers once more and nods. She laughs. “To which?” 

“Could I undress you?” 

“ _Yes_.”

After unfastening her cloak, his hands dart to the lacing of her shift, pulling it loose. It hangs open, baring the curves of her breasts and the expanse of her chest. He kisses the space right between where her breasts begin, featherlight. Toying with her belt, he unclasps it before setting it aside with her belongings. He sets to work removing her skirts: first the woolen one in blue tartan, then the leather one beneath, with its split front. Both pool at her feet still in their boots. 

“Will you lay down?” he asks. 

She does, stretching out languidly on the nest of furs and blankets she made earlier. As she does, she spies her affect on him pressing against the front of his trousers. Kneeling at her feet, he slides her boots off along with her stockings. Her bare feet, vastly different than his own, seem to have an effect on him. He massages the high instep, kisses the knob of her ankle. There is his tongue caressing the pad of her big toe, his mouth moving along the top of them, mapping out the bone and vein as a cartographer would.

“So _fragile_ ,” he breathes, gaze molten. It is the first time Éowyn doesn’t mind the use of the word to describe her. 

Merry unlaces her hose, sliding them off, and for a minute, he simply stares in open hunger at the length of her legs.

In wonder, he follows the pattern of the pale marks on her thighs and hips marking her womanhood. 

“They’re like _lightning_ ,” he says. 

“Do your people not have them?” 

“Yes, but not as visible or deep as yours.” He kisses her outer thighs.

While he admires her, she pulls her shirt all the way off, letting her long hair fall where it will. And it does, along her back, her pillows, her breasts. The apple of his throat bobs as he audibly swallows. 

“Am I to your liking?” she asks. He looks at her, almost offended, as if to say _how dare you have the audacity to ask such a thing_. She throws her head back and laughs, kisses him again and again. Mouth occupied, she unclasps his own cloak, tossing it aside. They part only enough for her to roughly untuck his shift and pull it off. And _yes_ , there is his birdbone chest, as fragile as her little Mannish feet. His soft swell of a belly. Éowyn grasps at his ribs, brings his body to her mouth, sucking a line of marks up his breastbone. Merry, in turn, moans soft, bewildered and beautiful. 

After removing his trousers, she grabs him by the waist and pulls him into her. On their knees, pressed tightly along their fronts, she knows his arousal. He kisses her, mouth drawing up along her jawline, down her neck, along her shoulder tops. Gripping his shoulder blades, she shudders as he sucks a blooming mark onto her collarbones, far away from any place armor could chafe (reverent, awed). His cock, pretty and thick as the rest of him, drips wet onto where their thighs are tangled. 

She presses him down into the blankets, his knees bracketing her ribs. With a faint trace of smugness, Éowyn notices how his breath hitches, how he whimpers, as she rests her weight on top of him. A dribble of come splashes between their bellies. Tracing his kiss-swollen lips with her tongue, she licks her way inside. He tastes of honey mead, but Éowyn wishes he tasted of her. 

So she says this. 

“I would have you taste of me, Merry. On your tongue, on your lips. Everywhere.” She cups his face, smoothing thumbs over cheekbones, pressing into the divot of his chin. He moans, squirming beneath her.

“I want to use my mouth on you,” he says. “Please. I want it so badly, Éowyn.” 

“Will you make me?” she says, teasing. Relinquishing her hold, Merry shoves her onto her back once more, determination glinting in his eyes. 

There is no preamble, no prelude. He settles between her thighs and licks a line up her quim with a wide, flat tongue. And it is _fire_. Fire, all-consuming. Éowyn’s had lovers who drew this act out to agonizing lengths, who were too wet or forceful. Merry is all yet none of these. He is agonizingly good, moving down to her cunt, lapping up her slick, teasing circles around her clit. He is wet, languid licks around her folds. And he is forceful, pressing down on her pelvis to hold her in place, massaging the hollows of her hip bones.

He sucks at her clit, brushes her inner thighs with soft cheek. Traces around it with the tip of his tongue, noses it, breathing deep her scent. It all feels unbearably intimate, she thinks distantly, swallowing back a whine. His hands massage her cunt, gauging her reaction to varying pressure, to squeezes versus barely-there brushes. He even strokes the coarse hair that covers her cunt.

Twining her fingers in his honey brown curls, Éowyn moans, rocks down onto his worshipful mouth. A little tug has Merry moaning into her as well, so she pulls harder. Merry pauses, nails biting her skin, to muffle a heated groan against her belly. When he returns to his task, he sucks on her clit, lightly at first, then harder when she presses down onto his face.

“ _Oh yes_ , Merry. Perfect,” she says, eyes fluttered shut in bliss. His tongue does something that makes her stomach turn to water, and her hips cant up chasing after it. 

He groans, hips wriggling down for friction. The sight of it sends her head awash with want. She can feel arousal pulsing low in her core, cascading over her.

“Your fingers—” she gasps, “put your fingers in me. Oh, by the _stars._ ”

His clever fingers enter her, twisting ‘round. He exhales against her hip as though he can’t believe he’s _here_ , with _her_. Éowyn has never felt more beloved. Then, _then_ , those fingers curl up and draw forward, and Éowyn _howls_. The fire burns her, torching her spine, turning her limbs to ash. He repeats the motion, pulling forward off the cliff’s edge. She is flooded, quivering at his touch. He keeps his tongue to her clit and fingers fucking into her as she comes. Sweat pours down her forehead, hair sticking to her face, but Merry just keeps _going_ . Lapping into her cunt, tongue moving alongside his fingers, his whole face pressed against her. Then his tongue swirls _inside_ right with his fingers.

Her legs spasm, thighs tensing around his head, hips jerking of their own accord. 

“I can’t Merry, no more. Stop, please,” she manages out, pulling at his hair. 

When he pulls back, Éowyn loses all her breath at the sight of him. Feral glint in his eyes, grin sharp, wiping _her_ slick from his mouth with the back of his hand. Sharp heat knifes up her at the sight. Surely if she hadn’t just spent herself, she’d come at the mere sight alone.

She lays before him, boneless. He gazes at her like she’s some goddess divine. 

Merry scrambles onto his knees, holds his cock at the base, bites the back of his hand to dampen a moan. He’s so close already, and she hasn’t even put a hand on him! In the faint candle light, his slick shines over his knuckles. Part of her, delirious and greedy, wants to shove him down, have him fuck her hand while she kisses all the breath from him, taste his completion. 

But she knows she wants something else tonight. While she collects her various thoughts and functions, Merry collects himself, so not spend too early. She wants, no, _plans_ , to have all of him before the night is over. That becoming flush of his has cascaded all down his chest, which she now notices is freckled. 

She draws lines between them, says, “If I have lightning on my thighs, then you have the stars on your chest.”

His returning grin is wobbly, taking her hand and kissing her knuckles.

Éowyn props herself up against pillow and blanket, urging Merry forth to straddle her hips. She touches him everywhere she can: the curving dip of his spine, which twists at her touch. His dusky nipples, which makes him let out a breathy _oh._ His hips, that flex unwittingly into the heat of her palms. There isn’t a thing about him not gorgeous. He squirms at her scrutiny, biting his lip. 

“My lady—” he says, then stops. “Éowyn, you’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen. Beautiful and strong.” Tears, crystalline, gather in the corners of his eyes. Mist clouds her own vision

“Merry,” she chokes out, swiping away the tears as they fall. “You are so kind. Kind and handsome and dear to me.”

He plays with her hair, but she can tell where he really wants to touch. So, while moving in to suck at his throat, she says, “Touch me, love. Go on,” guiding his hands to her breasts.

Forehead pressed against her’s, Merry gently kneads her breasts. Squeezing, rolling her nipples between nimble fingers. His kisses trail down to her collarbones, further on to her breasts where he nips and sucks. Heat pools in her belly again, pelvis wriggling beneath him, while he ruts mindless against, leaving glossy, shining streaks on her skin. He takes one of her nipples in his mouth, swirling his tongue around, suckling. Éowyn moans at that, nails digging into his shoulder blades. He switches to her other breast, continuing his ministrations as his prick drips more with each overwhelmed noise she makes.

Because they have this night. Because they are soldiers in a war with no guaranteed outcome. And Éowyn, for once in her life, wants to be selfish and hold this wonderful creature as close as she can, damn the consequences. 

“There’s so much I want to do with you,” she pants. Curses the stinging threat of tears in her own eyes. “But we haven’t the time nor the space.” 

Releasing her, Merry sits back, takes her hand. “Then let’s make the most of tonight, of what we have.” He reaches up, tangles hands in her hair, and pulls her close. He strokes her back, and Éowyn feels a bit like a foal being soothed but doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t even mind really. All she does is cling to him. They breathe for a while together, feeling the rise and fall of each other’s chests, the brag of heartbeats: the most primal sensation of life.

Finally, Éowyn says, “I think I know what I’d like.”

Merry looks at her curiously. She leans in close to his ear as though divulging a great secret.

“I want you to fuck me.”

Merry’s inhale is _gorgeous_. The shudder that ripples through him and into her, delicious.

His grip on her moves to her ass which he takes and yanks her against him. Gasping, she steadies herself on his waist.

Low, with voice like gravel, Merry says, “And how shall I take you, my lady? On your knees seems too low for a woman such as yourself.” His hand reaches between her thighs, strokes over her hole with a teasing touch. “But maybe that’s what you need? Or perhaps you wish to be taken on your back” He slips a finger inside her, quick as anything, pulls it out and sucks the taste off. “I’m amenable to anything.” 

Éowyn swears, throws herself down and ushers Merry to lie beside her, his chest to her back.

“Start like this, we have time yet tonight to try both.”

Reaching forward, his fingers find her clit while his cock slips between her legs. He rocks against her a few times before stilling.

“What’s the matter?” she asks.

“Are you— I mean, will you be safe if I take you? I would not put you in a way.”

“Of course. There is a tea we take that prevents the quickening of a child. I’m sure those of your people who may carry children have something similar.” She turns just enough to kiss him. “But I thank you. Your honour is admirable, my knight.”

Merry smiles and nods. Brushing aside her hair, he kisses the base of her neck. Then, he grabs her leg, hauls it up to bare her cunt. Devout, Merry slides his fingers inside once more, fucking her slow and lazily as he bites her shoulders. It’s _good_ , the way he draws out the pleasure like no other she’s had before, but it’s not enough. Grinding back against his prick, Éowyn whines. She reaches behind to push his hips forward.

“Come inside, Merry, please. I need it.”

She can feel his handsome smirk against her neck. “Are you so quick to beg? I thought Men had considerable stamina,” he says. His cock slides against her quim, catches on the rim of her hole, brushes her clit: a teasing promise of a fuck, and still not enough. Heat simmers just beneath her skin, Éowyn feels as though she’s swelling out of her skin with need.

“I will beg if it means you would fuck me sooner. I never thought you a tease, Merry.”

“Well,” he says, ignoring her comment and continuing to rub the head of prick between her folds though he’s gentle, almost hesitant. “I guess this shows that Hobbits, insatiable creatures that we are, can bring a woman to beg so early. I shan’t leave you wanting.”

And _finally_ he slides his cock inside her. Though he’s small, he’s _thick_ , stretching her to the point she knows she’ll ache from it tomorrow. Merry exhales all in a rush once he’s seated inside her. 

“Oh yes,” she says eyes fluttering shut at the sensation, “ _yes_ , that is perfect.”

When he begins fucking her, with slow rolls of hips that jolt her foward, Éowyn wonders, absently, about the picture they must make and laughs joyously. 

Gruff and breathless, Merry says, “I hope that’s not at me,” fucking into her hard and making her gasp. 

“No. I was thinking about how we might look like this, you clinging to my back, and I so much taller. It must appear very silly.”

Merry’s thrusts remain steady: languid, deep, pounding. Raw want twists her guts into tangles, turns her body to water, useless. Éowyn has never seen the sea—the very thought of so much open water terrifies her—but she thinks that this is what it feels like: caught in the midst of a tidal wave that tosses you back and forth. 

Merry laughs as well, says, “But any onlookers wouldn’t know how well you’re getting fucked, would they?” And all Éowyn can do is moan, holding fast to his arms wrapped tight around her waist.

“If we were back in the Shire,” he says, ragged and undone, “I’d have you everywhere I could. In the gardens, where the sunlight would warm our skin. You’d— _hah—_ look so beautiful with all the flowers. Or I’d take you in the library, spread you out over a desk. In the pantry, where we’d have to be quiet so nobody catches us.”

Tangling their fingers, she kisses the palm of his hand. Because she _does_ want that, Merry _makes_ her want companionship and to reclaim a youth stolen from her far too early, but Éowyn finds she lacks the words to say so. Westron is a limiting language. 

In Rohirric, she says a phrase that could translate as _I want the world you are able to see_. Though Merry can’t fully understand, and she doesn’t attempt to translate (especially with the way all coherent thought has flown from her head), he presses his face between her shoulder blades, and she knows he understands the meaning. 

But then Merry’s speed picks up, and she cries out, writhing in his grip. The girth of his prick combined with the rapidness of his pace makes her feel stretched wide and bare. Covering her belly, she imagines feeling his dick press against the skin as he delves deeper into her than anyone before has ever been permitted. The sound of their skin meeting and harsh breaths pillow around them like snowfall, hidden by thick canvas walls. He finds her breasts, massaging. Éowyn arches her back, shoving back onto cock that steadfastly retains its control. She didn’t think there’d ever be pleasure in relinquishing control like this, but Merry is safety and hope and does not take what she will not give. 

“That’s it,” he says, drunk sounding, “good, love. Doing so well.” His accent slips deeper—the Shire filling his vowels with river ambling and hills rolling. She can feel the strength lying in his arms as he clutches her. Merry bounces her on his cock, pressing bruises onto bone. Clinging to a blanket, her toes curl against his shins when his hand reaches between her and presses up against her clit, but stopping there. 

Blinking through the haze of pleasure, she says, a hint of whine in her voice, “Why do you not touch me?”

“I want you to do it yourself. Use my hand, my lady.”

“ _Oh_ ,” she moans, doing as instructed. She rocks down onto that hand, beginnings of calluses catching at her delicate skin. Éowyn is caught between Merry’s heat along her back, the weight of him inside her, and his deft little hand remaining steady. She crests on the edge, but it’s not enough to tip her over. 

She says, “Wait, stop for a moment.” Merry groans, but does as instructed. His hips quiver pressed right up against her ass. 

Maneuvering him between her legs, Éowyn smiles. 

“I want to see you when you spend,” she says.

His face softens; she tilts her head back, pulls him down between her breasts. Instantly, he kisses her breastbone again. And Ewoyn feels treasured but used—a well-loved blanket or oft-read book. Something precious and wanted and trusted, valuable enough to be kept close at hand. 

Merry holds her face, traces her cheekbones. Pushing back inside, they both sigh, shaky. Somehow, it feels so much more intense and all the more lovely like this: their fronts pressed together, lips locked in lingering kisses. She wraps her legs around him. She thinks again how silly this must look, but Merry’s kissing the hinge of her jaw, and Éowyn shudders so deeply Merry asks her if she’s alright. 

After she nods, he resumes that unhurried, deep, _pulsing_ pace from earlier, rattling Éowyn’s teeth with each thrust. With a wet gasp, she digs her nails into his shoulders to brace herself. She swivels her hips down in time with his thrusts, and _how_ the drag of his prick inside her, full and heavy, makes her forget that a world exists outside the two of them. 

Éowyn reaches, brings his fingers to her mouth, laves her tongue around them like she wants to do to his cock. Merry’s mouth drops into a perfect little _o_ , drags the pad of a finger along her swollen lips before brushing over her clit. Edging around it rather than fully stroking. 

“Don’t be awful, Merry,” she pleads, grasping his wrist. With a self-satisfied look, he bats her away, moves down to where they’re joined, where he’s turning her body inside out. She can feel him teasing the rim of her hole before sinking in a finger that presses up, and Éowyn’s hands fly to cover her mouth to catch the shout she feels racing up her throat. But he pulls away, licks his thumb, and sets it to her clit. With steady pressure there, he angles his hips up, and _nails_ her with a sharp thrust. 

Éowyn writhes beneath him, gasps, “I’m so close, love. Keep going like that.” 

Merry obeys, fucking her so hard she feels as though she’s shaking to peices. When she comes, her body curves into his hold, her hips spasm, her lungs stall for air. He fucks her through it, whispering sweet words into her ear— _so beautiful, my lady_ —that tremble because then, urgent, he says, “Where— where would you have me spend?”

“Outside, on me,” she says, voice rough and wrecked. 

Merry comes, face crumpled with love and joy. Éowyn shivers at the splash of his come, burning hot, against her cunt and dripping down. She soothes along the flanks of his abdomen, pressing against his pelvis as he trembles. He collapses on top of her, head on her belly. She lets out a soft _oof_ but more out of surprise than anything. While their breath steadies, she kneads his neck, scratches her nails along his scalp. 

As she’s about to move him off to the side so as to clean up, he halts her.

With a fey, coy smirk, Merry gathers his remaining strength, insinuates himself between her thighs, splaying them wide, and laps at her cunt and his own spend. 

Éowyn moans, heaving down onto his tongue. “ _Filthy_ ,” she admonishes.

When he looks up at her, he licks his own come from his lips. “Didn’t I say Hobbits were insatiable?”

She flops down, “That you did, Master Holbytla.” She tucks a ringlet behind his ear. “Merry.”

He kisses her, the taste of both of them on his tongue.

They lay together, his head on her breast. Outside her tent, bullfrogs croak and owls hoot, announcing their presence. 

Quiet, she says, “I’m not a poet, Merry, but I believe your kisses are like fog over moors. All fades away except you.”

His smile is besotted, tender. “Sounds rather poetic to me. Maybe you have a future in it.” 

“Hush,” she laughs. “And stay here with me tonight. My uncle won’t have need you until the morning.”

Growing chilled as the sweat cools on them, she pulls a fur to cover them as they curl up together. And while she drifts off to sleep, Éowyn thinks of Gǣstapaeard and freedom, of home and hearth. Perhaps the line between is not so clear as before.

  
  



End file.
